


and i can tell just what you want, you don’t want to be alone

by dreamonhunters



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Misfits AU, Unrequited Love, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24717487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamonhunters/pseuds/dreamonhunters
Summary: “Do you trust me?” Albert asks.In another time, maybetrustis a substitute forlove. Finch isn’t too sure. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, a dull ache but a bright warmth at the same time. It’s only ever present when Albert is there, but Finch could never tell him. He doesn’t admit to things like that, not when there’s no good reason to.“Almost.”
Relationships: Albert DaSilva/Finch (Newsies)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 23





	and i can tell just what you want, you don’t want to be alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bigsleepsuperhighway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigsleepsuperhighway/gifts).



> my half of a trade with lovely **dylan** _!_ love you bro ♡

The room is silent, aside from the sound of someone clicking away at a keyboard. Finch likes to work in the dark. There’s a soft turquoise glow beneath his hands, occasionally blocked out by his fingers flashing across the keys. Artificial light from his monitor acts as a primary light source. Albert always scolds him, tells him he’ll strain his eyes. End his own career before he hits twenty-one. Finch ignores him. 

“Hey, asshole. It’s 2am. Go to bed,” a bleary voice mumbles from somewhere behind him. Finch lifts his head just a little, enough to indicate he heard. He doesn’t reward his visitor with any kind of verbal response. Maybe if he stays quiet, the other boy will drop it and go back to bed. 

Instead, there’s a quiet sigh from behind him. Footsteps. The chair next to him is now occupied by a taller boy, ginger hair gleaming dully in the blue light. His whiskey-coloured eyes flicker over Finch’s work in vague interest, but they both know he doesn’t understand the lines of code covering the screen. 

“Go to bed,” Finch murmurs, eyes flicking between his screen and Albert’s face. 

The screen illuminates the high points of his face, making those sharp cheekbones seem all the more dangerous. Albert’s eyes linger for just a little too long. 

“Ain’t that what I just told you to do?” he teases, although there’s no real heat in his voice. If you listen close enough, there’s maybe a note of concern. 

Finch doesn’t know why Albert acts surprised. He doesn’t sleep at night. It’s the most productive time of day. That’s something he’ll maintain until the end of time and nobody could convince him otherwise. No distractions, aside from the one sitting beside him right now. 

“I got work to do,” Finch answers simply, taking another sip from the can beside him. One of those ridiculous energy drinks Albert got him hooked on. If they didn’t help him work so well, he might find it within him to be annoyed. “You gonna sit there all night?” 

Albert yawns, stretches his arms about above his head. Shifts in the chair. That trademark smirk curls his lips upwards. “Sure,” he answers. “Why not?” 

“Don’t  _ you  _ have work tomorrow?” he tries again. He’s not really trying to get rid of Albert. Not properly. There are much more effective methods for getting people out of his workspace, and those often involve the pistol strapped to his hip. Finch doesn’t take interruptions very well. 

“I do. But I don’t have anything  _ important  _ planned. You know how it is,” Albert supplies. Drawls a little on the word _ important _ . “So I can afford to stay up a little.” 

With a heavy sigh, Finch finally turns away from his work. He doesn’t shut off the computer just yet. Keeping up the pretence Albert is actually going to leave is another thing Finch won’t address. But it’s impossible to concentrate with the boy by his side, and he knows Albert won’t let him anyway. 

“Fine. Whaddya want, idiot?” Finch relents, although his tone lacks any venom. 

“You,” Albert answers, simple and quiet. 

They play this game every day. Albert disrupts Finch’s work, that intention is clear as day, but they don’t really talk. Albert has a million people he can go to for a quick chat, and Finch isn’t one of them. Never will be one of them. There’s a little exchange back and forth, and Finch is kissing Albert, biting him, and Albert just grins against his lips. Takes whatever he can get. The next day, it’s the same. Nothing ever happened. Just part of their daily routines, a rite of passage they can’t rid themselves of. Finch can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it.

“That’s what you always say,” he snarks back, rolling his eyes. No fun if he doesn’t put up a fight, Finch always says. 

If Albert hears him, he doesn’t grace that comment with a response. Instead he changes the subject, the ghost of a fond smile tugging at his lips. 

“You remember when we met?”

Of course he does. How Finch could  _ forget  _ is a better question. But he can’t answer too quickly, because then Albert will know he thinks about him, and that ruins the whole illusion. So the resulting silence is prolonged, while Finch pretends to mull over the finer details.

Albert’s been part of the New Misfits movement far longer than Finch — sometimes he jokes about being born into it, having no other choice in life. His father has been Head Engineer since before the boy can remember. It only makes sense for his son to follow in his footsteps, and be handed a job as soon as he’s capable of building the required tech. 

Finch, however, didn’t really know about the movement until he turned eighteen. Every child in Eastgate is fed the regulated propaganda throughout their school lives, even though Finch has always been just a little suspicious of how the most impoverished city in the country was now home to the most cutting-edge technology. Something is just a little too good to be true. There’s an ulterior motive  _ somewhere _ . 

Nobody questions it, though. To go against Cyber Mind Corporations is essentially treason. 

Some kids get lucky, though. The job of the New Misfits’ recruiters is simple — shatter the rose-tinted glasses placed over their eyes, and hit the youngest, most impressionable members of society with a large dose of reality. 

Finch feels like he cut himself on the glass. To this day, he credits a certain Jack Kelly with saving his life. The young boy makes him understand, promises him something  _ better _ . Cyber Mind’s need for totalitarian control leaves no room for individuality — or even free thought. It was  _ mind control _ , Jack tells him, and Finch can’t find a reason to argue back. The evidence is damning.

He accepts the invitation in a heartbeat. 

When he first arrives, Jack explains something about moving him into a new building. State-of-the-art, completed shortly before Finch’s arrival. He isn’t really listening, though. He doesn’t care, truthfully, so long as he has somewhere quiet to work, as promised. 

Albert more or less stumbles into his life three days later. 

Originally, the young technician is sent over to help fix up his office. Someone else called out sick, and Albert’s the only person available. Other excuses in that vein. As ever, he doesn’t really listen to the string of apologies and explanations. Patience is a virtue that simply evades Finch. If it were up to him, this would have been done  _ days  _ before. 

Even despite his best efforts to ignore it, Finch is drawn to him. He’s like a breath of fresh air compared to everyone else he’s met. Bright ginger hair, eyes that sparkle when he laughs, broad shoulders. Finch wants to hate him. Wants to slap that stupid smile off his face. He also wants to know how those hands would feel wrapped around his neck, just a little too much pressure. Albert works quickly, a cheeky grin plastered across his face as he cracks the occasional joke with enthusiasm you couldn’t possibly fake. He really isn’t the type of person Finch actively seeks out, and yet it’s simply impossible to deny the connection when you first encounter your soulmate. 

(If you believe in soulmates, that is. Finch doesn’t.)

That’s how Finch eventually finds himself here, curled in an oversized chair with multiple brightly-lit monitors surrounding him, and the sound of another person breathing beside him. It’s quiet, almost serene, and he likes it that way. 

Gradually, hushed conversations turn into fleeting touches and stolen kisses. They both pretend like they don’t want it, they’re not interested, they don’t  _ need  _ it, but there’s something addictive in the way their bodies press together in a darkened room. Albert’s lips are always slightly chapped as he kisses Finch. Strong hands on his waist. Warm. Inviting. He stays up through the night just to be beside the hacker. Finch can never bring himself to make Albert leave. 

Most nights, they simply lay beside each other. Albert’s arm drapes lazily over Finch’s torso, tracing nonsensical patterns across pale skin. There’s a strange intimacy in simply lying beside someone, feeling the rise and fall of their chest. The sound of his heartbeat softly thudding when Finch lays his head down on his sternum. Albert’s fingertips are just a little calloused. 

Sometimes Albert takes him apart, however he damn wants, while Finch whispers his name over and over like some sacred mantra. Funny, because Finch never really saw the point in religion. The boy above him could be one, though. Those nights are few and far between, nothing more than a carnal need, and the next day it’s almost forgotten. Almost. Those events are eternally emblazoned into both boy’s memories. Dark marks on Finch’s hips and shoulders and neck serve as a more visual reminder. There are some things you just don’t forget. 

More often than not, they just sleep. Pure and simple as that. Finch wakes up the following afternoon alone, but that suits him just fine. Albert has his own life. The world doesn’t revolve around Finch. 

Finch wouldn’t say he’s in love. Love is too complicated for such a simple arrangement. Words like that have a tendency to ruin. He just enjoys having Albert around. Maybe that’s the answer he finds himself searching for when he rolls onto the cold side of the bed in the afternoon sunlight. Thinking too hard makes his head hurt. 

On that note, he’s been thinking too long. He should answer Albert’s question. 

“Yeah. I do.” 

There’s a smile on Albert’s face when Finch finally refocuses. Familiar. “I’m glad.” 

Finch snorts. “You’re fucking weird.” 

“Just the way you like me,” he answers. Always has a quick remark resting on the tip of his tongue. 

“Who said I like you?” Finch challenges, bringing his long legs up to cross them beneath him. He considers switching the monitor off. No, not yet — that would fuel Albert’s ego just a little too much. 

Albert just smiles. The fondness travels right to those damn eyes, the colour of honeyed whiskey when the light hits them just right. “Call it a sixth sense,” he replies. Finch can’t decide if he wants to slap him or kiss him.

Finch settles for rolling his eyes, shifting again to get comfortable. “What made you ask that?” 

“Been two years today since you got here,” Albert explains. “Thought we should celebrate.” 

Two years? Had it really been that long? Finch doesn’t bother to keep track of things like that. Anniversaries are far too sentimental. They’ll ruin a perfectly good day when those events inevitably become twisted by trauma.

“Damn,” he laughs, although the small smirk twisting his lips upwards betrays him. “Didn’t think I'd last that long.” 

“You shut up,” Albert groans, reaching out to swat Finch’s hand away from the keyboard. Maybe he’ll stop working. “Shut the fuck up. Such a fuckin’ attention whore.” 

“Any excuse to call me a whore,” Finch answers breezily,  _ finally  _ leaning forward to shut off the monitor. A silent invitation. He’s grown bored of the small talk, in that way he so often does. The sudden darkness makes Finch’s breath catch in his throat. 

It’s practically pitch black, aside from a few coloured lights that glow dimly, to indicate the machines surrounding them still work as they should. Not quite enough to see properly, mind. He hears shifting from beside him. 

Albert’s hand comes to rest on his hip, pulling Finch closer. “C’mere,” he breathes, and Finch doesn’t resist. He lets Albert guide him into his lap, those calloused hands on his body, straddling his waist. Lips press hard against his own, and suddenly Finch can’t focus on anything but the way Albert grips his waist, how their lips slot together messily. 

“Mm, Al,” he mumbles, pulling away slightly. Their foreheads rest together, and Finch’s eyes glisten with something incomprehensible in the low light. 

“Yeah?” Albert whispers. His lips ghost over Finch’s again. It takes everything not to pull him back in again, kiss him with a desperate passion that burns somewhere deep within Finch. He likes keeping Albert at an arm’s length, always on his toes. Doing that would only provide him with the answers to questions Finch would never hear. 

So instead he rests his head on Albert’s shoulder, face tilted slightly so he can mouth at the boy’s throat. Normally he’ll bite, sink his teeth in until he can taste the first hint of blood on his tongue. Likes the way Albert’s skin tastes. Albert groans, and Finch feels the vibrations in his throat. Feels good. Brings him back to the reality of the situation. It’s the only answer he’ll provide, because he doesn’t want to think up a verbal response. 

“We should head to bed,” Albert suggests, although any sense of urgency is lacking. They’re both happy to remain here a little longer. 

“Whatever you want.” Finch replies sleepily, nipping at the column of Albert’s neck. He makes no movement to leave, and Albert doesn’t seem inclined to, either. 

The silence drags on a little longer, and he listens to Albert’s heartbeat. Feels the way he breathes, how his fingers instinctively trace the sharp ridges of Finch’s spine. Neither boy moves. 

“Do you love me?”

That question startles Finch, although he doesn’t make it obvious. If Albert was paying enough attention, he might notice the way Finch’s breath seems to falter a little. It’s unlikely he would. 

“I dunno. Love’s weird.” 

It’s not the answer Albert wants, but it’s the answer he’s getting. This is not the time for soul-searching, or trying to find answers Finch isn’t sure he wants to hear. Love is complex and messy and ends in flames. He’s never seen the point in labels. 

Albert hides his reaction well. Doesn’t even flinch. Honestly, it’s almost impressive. 

“Is that a no, then?” he asks, and if he’s trying to conceal the hurt in his voice it’s slightly less successful. 

“Did I say that?” Finch responds. No, he didn’t. “I said I don’t know. Not really an easy question, is it?”

“S’ppose not.” 

The silence isn’t awkward, but it’s not as comfortable as usual. Finch shifts a little, loosens his grip around Albert’s neck. He doesn’t pull away completely, because that would send all the wrong messages, but he raises his head enough to meet those irritatingly beautiful eyes.

“Are you mad?” Finch asks, after just a few moments too long. The question lacks any kind of concern, because he can work that answer out for himself. 

Albert hesitates. “Why would I be mad?” 

“Because you’re in love with me.” 

“I never said that.” 

“Love is stupid.” 

“You’re so full of yourself.” 

Finch laughs, and pulls himself upright. Slots their lips together. It’s not love, it never has been, but it’s something close. Albert reciprocates, because he always  _ does _ . 

“Don’t love me,” Finch whispers. “There are better ways to waste your time.” 

Albert smirks, spotting the challenge in Finch’s eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself too much. That ego’s gettin’ too big for you.” 

And just like that, the moment is gone. Albert blinks, and the weight on his lap vanishes. Finch stands right in front of him, a cocky smirk playing at his lips. Albert could kill him. 

“Bedtime,” he instructs, the lilting quality of his voice akin to laughter. Finch doesn’t laugh very often. It’s the best Albert can get. “Don't want you oversleeping tomorrow.” 

When Finch decides to play difficult, Albert surrenders. It’s the one battle he can’t win. So he relents, gets to his feet. Sitting in the same position for so long only rewards him with cramped muscles. Absently, he wonders how Finch copes. He stretches. 

“Who’s place?” he asks. Finch doesn’t bother looking over his shoulder, already thumbing through a colourful keychain for his room key. It’s a slim plastic keycard, black with turquoise trim, the most easily distinguishable key on the whole keychain. Honestly, he’s fiddling with the keys to waste time. 

“Mine’s closer.” Finch says. Albert doesn’t say anything, just follows close behind. Part of him wants to put his hands on Finch’s hips and draw the boy back, nipping at the nape of his neck. Biting. See what sounds he can draw from him. 

But he doesn’t. He lets Finch walk away, and for a few moments he just stands there. Watches. That boy is a force to be reckoned with, in more ways than one. Albert loves that. 

“You just gonna stand there?” he challenges, glancing over his shoulder to smirk at Albert with a cocky glint in his eyes. He’s got the upper hand now, and he knows it. That’s the thing with them. It’s like a constant power struggle, although nobody ever truly puts up a fight. Maybe it’s more like an involuntary exchange of power. 

Albert just smiles back at him, no teeth, and lets Finch lead him into the darkened corridor. Most people would be asleep by now.  _ Normal  _ people would be asleep by now. In fact, they’re probably the only people still awake in this area of the complex. It’s nice. 

Finch’s apartment is close to his office, located just round the corner towards the right wing of the building. Their hands brush against each other every so often as they walk, shoulders bumping together playfully. Albert doesn’t talk, and Finch has nothing to respond to. The silence is comfortable.

“Hey,” Albert murmurs, as Finch slides the card into the reader. It buzzes softly, and the lock clicks open. 

Finch hums his acknowledgement, hitting a switch by the door as he enters and letting the bright, artificial lights sting his eyes. Takes a moment to adjust. It’s a small apartment, really — every member’s quarters were designed to accommodate their every living need, and little more than that. He’s not a man of material things, though, and minimalism suits him just fine. 

Albert lets the door close behind them, automatic lock sliding into place. Listens to the little click. He didn’t expect a verbal answer, really. So he continues, “Are you happy here?”

“Loaded question,” Finch murmurs, keys clattering onto plastic as he passes a side table. Dark eyes are now fixating entirely on the neon cityscape visible through the obnoxiously large windows dominating the outer wall of his apartment. He won’t look at Albert. “Define ‘happy’.”

“Okay.” Albert smirks, leaning against the nearest wall. He observes the way Finch’s eyes flicker from building to building, taking in the lights. Eastgate always looks prettier by night. “Fulfilled, I guess. Like you’re doin’ something useful.” 

Finch seems to consider those words, then nods slowly. His eyes never leave the window. He misses the stars, bleached out by the brightness of the city below. “It’s pretty obvious we’re doing  _ something  _ useful. Isn’t this whole thing about freeing people?” 

“Well, yeah, that’s the whole point, but you’re…” he trails off, searches for the right words. “...difficult to read.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Finch mutters, but he does. Vulnerability is a weakness. So he builds his walls high and answers everything with the same set of generic responses, and it keeps people off his back. They can think what they like of him, truthfully, because Finch doesn’t care. Opinions get you shot. 

Albert lets out a soft sigh, resignation colouring the sound. If Finch doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. There’s no way around that. “We should sleep,” he suggests, completely changing tack. 

Finch doesn’t respond until a pair of arms wrap around his middle, the weight on his shoulder familiar as Albert rests his head there. It’s almost enough to tear his eyes away from the world outside. He leans into that familiar touch, exhales slowly. Albert’s chest is warm against his back.

“Do you trust me?” Albert asks. 

In another time, maybe  _ trust  _ is a substitute for  _ love _ . Finch isn’t too sure. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, a dull ache but a bright warmth at the same time. It’s only ever present when Albert is there, but Finch could never tell him. He doesn’t admit to things like that, not when there’s no good reason to. 

“Almost.” 

It’ll do, for now. It’s been two years, and still Finch hasn’t let his guard down entirely. He’s not sure why Albert’s surprised. 

“Alright.” 

And then the moment is gone, and Finch changes the topic with practised ease. “Come to bed,” he murmurs, hand slipping easily into Albert’s. It’s almost unfair how well their hands fit together. He wishes he didn’t like it so much. 

He lets the smaller boy lead him to the bedroom, pulling his shirt over his head as he does so. Finch does the same, and when Albert turns around there’s a pair of lips pressing hard against his own. Thinly veiled desperation. Hands fall to grip his waist, and Finch’s arms loop around Albert’s shoulders. 

When they break apart, Finch’s eyes are shiny and his lips are swollen. “I don’t love you, y’know,” he whispers, and Albert drops his head to nip at the column of his neck. 

“I know,” Albert breathes, hot breath ghosting against his skin. “I don’t care.” 

A soft, short laugh escapes Finch, and he lets Albert push him down onto the bed. He can taste skin between his teeth, the slight saltiness of sweat. Strong arms tangle around his slim waist, teeth painting dark stains across pale flesh. Albert holds him tight, the way he always does, and Finch feels a strange sense of completion. 

It’s not long after that he falls asleep, head resting on Albert’s chest and one of the boy’s strong arms wrapped tight around his waist. The gentle thud of a heartbeat, the sound of somebody breathing, the occasional rustling of movement in his sleep. 

Strangely intimate. 

When Finch wakes up, the afternoon sunlight is streaming through the cracks beneath his door. He never closed the blinds. With a yawn, he rolls over, onto the cold side of the bed. He’s alone again. 

**Author's Note:**

> come find me on tumblr @narvaeztrash for more writing _!_


End file.
